I hated my life. And if you twisted my arm, I would even say I was suicidal. I've tried to end my existence a couple of times. Land phone wires, pills, guitar strings around my wrists — none of it did the trick because the goal was not to die exactly, but to stop feeling. To go numb. Even if it was just for a while.

Sometimes, I wished I were invisible. I've felt that way all my life so it wouldn't be any different if it was literal. It wasn't because I had no friends or family — although that certainly added to it. My mother was as horrible as they came. My dad, abusive in capital letters.

If I got asked about my parents, I've always said they died when I was six. But the truth was, they were very much alive. And that was for lack of trying.

I walked in on my dad with a gun in his mouth when I was about twelve. He looked at me and said, "Wolfie, come here. Pull the trigger for me." He was too much of a coward to do it himself. Too much of a coward to live the life he'd sown for himself. For his family. The worst part was, I wasn't surprised. Just supremely disappointed. As I've always been since before I knew what the word meant. Dad was an avid drinker, an adulterer, and a gambler, and my mum enabled him. The two were cut from the same cloth. I was simply unfortunate to be born of that cloth.

Anyway, as I stood there that night staring at my pathetic excuse of a father, kneeling on the ground with a gun in his mouth, I couldn't summon pity. And I sure as hell wasn't going to give him an easy way out. If he was going to off himself, he should have the guts to do it with his own hands.

So, I got out of there as fast as I could and shut the door in my room. The next morning there he was, lying on the couch as drunk as a skunk. My mother, missing. A typical occurrence of hers. Her photograph was perched on the grand oval table beside my dad, and I stared at it, feeling nothing.

That was the last I saw of either of them. So maybe I was wrong, maybe they were dead. And if they were and I knew where they'd been buried, I'd piss on their graves.

Now eleven years later, I hadn't amounted to anything one could be proud of, but I was better off than they were. My job kept me busy and comfortable — dirty and sweating like a pig — but comfortable all the same. On my best days, I just sat beside my window in my less than impressive house, staring at the strange, beautiful world outside. A world that had never been kind to me.

Maybe I didn't deserve kindness. Kindness was for people born into happy families and loving parents. Kindness was for people who still had hope despite the glaring hopelessness in the universe. Kindness was that brown girl who walked across my street every morning at exactly seven am, heading to her therapist's office. The minute I saw her on that sunny morning in May aeons ago, I knew I wanted to live. When I saw her the next day, I knew I absolutely wanted to live. Once it became a thing, that suicidal streak in me dulled into non-existence.

I've woken up just shy of six every day since just to see her stroll by, sometimes in a dress and sometimes in a jean skirt. She was so pretty it hurt to look at her. Maybe it was because I hadn't seen a pretty thing in all my life. Or maybe it was because no matter how many times I've observed her, she'd never look at me the same way. Never know me. Never feel for me what I felt for her.

I was not some hopeless romantic, would never allow myself to be that way. But sometimes, I wished she'd look up at my window and smile at me. I hadn't seen her up close, but I had a feeling her eyes were a rich brown and full of pain. Pain she hid behind that smile she always threw at the men who cat-called at her.

I wished I could ask her her name, ask her what was troubling her, ask her to tell me her fears or why she secretly cried everyday in her car. I wanted to know everything about her. But boys like me didn't get girls like that. Boys like me didn't get anything. We just spent two years watching a pretty stranger walk past our house as we sipped coffee. This was what my life had been reduced to — stalking. It was not like I could sink any lower anyway. I had no hobbies. Or a personality to go with it.

I tried giving her a name, since I was too much of a coward to ask her for it myself. But I could never come up with one that was just right.

Today, she was three minutes late. Which was odd because she was never late. I tried to slow my racing heart as worry started to prick through my skin even though it was absolutely ridiculous to feel that way. Three minutes late was hardly a cause for concern.

But then there she was, hurrying through the sidewalk in a flurry of red, her long braids flying behind her, as if trying to escape a ghost.

Curious, I left my spot at the window and rushed outside, following her at a safe distance against my better judgement. She paused just outside the office, collected herself, and walked in. I waited about eight beats before stumbling in behind her.

Her therapist, Mark, raised an eyebrow at me but said nothing. I wasn't in the least surprised. He was an impossibly uptight and reserved person. The first time we'd met, we'd gotten into a fight over noisemaking. He reminded me vaguely of Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory.

It had always been such a mystery to me why he had a job as a therapist in the first place. He seemed so... out of touch with humanity. We'd spoken to each other often, even shared a hamburger just yesterday where we sat on the bench outside his office and talked about everything and nothing.

He invited me to come to one of his sessions, though — become one of his clients, but I refused. I would not be psychoanalyzed. Not even to save my life.

"Sit, Savannah. You look distressed."

Savannah. Oh, I hated it. Didn't it literally translate to tropical forest? Did her parents not like her? She deserved a better name, certainly. Savannah was an insult.

"I'm fine," she said as she sat across from Mark in a cushiony grey chair. "Just nervous about the physiology test at school today."

Her voice was paradise. Something about it, soft and mysterious yet deliberate, pulled me to her in ways her constant walks across my home never did. I stayed beside the door though, not daring to move.

"And your dad? How is he?"

"He's great, yeah. Doing much better actually." Her voice was more forced this time, and I had the distinct feeling she wasn't being entirely truthful.

Mark nodded, then looked directly at me, and I froze. "Have you changed your mind about being my client, then?"

"What do you mean? I'm already your client," Savannah scoffed.

"Not you, him," Mark clarified, pointing a pen in my direction. Savannah whipped her head in said direction then turned her face away immediately.

Dismissed. I was dismissed. You'd think I'd have gotten used to it by now, but it felt like I'd been hit in the gut by a raging bull's horns.

"Is this one of your I spy mind games? Because I'm telling you right now, I am not in the mood."

I couldn't stand there any longer. It was unbearable to have her talk as if I wasn't in the same room with her. I moved to open the door, but Mark called behind me.

"Wait," he got up from his seat and walked up towards me, "let me at least introduce you two before you leave. "

"Who are you talking to, Mark?"

The question was so abrupt, so terribly fascinating that I removed my hand from the door knob, the frown on my face faltering.

Mark turned to face her, a peculiar expression on his face.

"Savannah, this is Wolfgang, my neighbor," he said with a flourish, gesturing towards me.

Savannah looked at my direction, her gaze never reaching mine, as if she didn't know where to look. She returned her gaze back to Mark, annoyed.

"Quit playing games. I have a class in about thirty minutes."

"I am not playing any games. But maybe you are. Be nice and say hi to Wolfgang."

Savannah paused, her features softening to that of genuine concern.

"Have you turned into my dad? Seeing things that aren't there?"

I could not believe what I was hearing. Neither could Mark because his mouth was slightly ajar. "Savannah..." he said slowly as he took two small steps towards her. "Are you saying you cannot see the unfashionable young man standing at the edge of the door?"

Savannah looked even more concerned as she got up from her seat. The concern was not for herself I noticed, but for her therapist whom she clearly believed was losing his mind.

"Are you feeling well, Mark? Do I need to get a doctor? Or see a new therapist?"

Mark just stared at her incredulously. I on the other hand was finally able to move my shaky legs and stand before her. The close proximity set my blood on fire, but I kept steady. I was wrong about her eye color — they were dark. However, I was right about the emotion hidden behind it. It was definitely pain. A fountain of it. I would know, I've been living it my entire life.

She looked right through me, like I wasn't even there. I raised my hand and waved it fiercely. Nothing. I even said 'hello.' Nothing. My mind was swimming with shock.

"Interesting," Mark hummed behind me and I nearly jumped. He rushed over to his bookshelves and fished out a huge green book, flipping through the pages. Savannah, having had enough bizarreness for one day, grabbed her bag from the chair.

"I can come tomorrow if this isn't a good time for you."

Mark raised his head at her just then, his glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose. When he spoke, his voice was filled with wonder. "He's standing right beside you. You really don't see him?"

"Okay, that's it. See you tomorrow, Mark." With that, she hurried out of the office, her red buttoned dress flying every which way. I stared after her for God knew how long.

"Wha- what the hell just happened?" I asked no one in particular. Because it couldn't possibly be explained. It wasn't possible. How could she not see me? Did I die recently? Was I a ghost? Of course not, if I were, Mark wouldn't be able to see me. Unless he was a ghost too. No — Savannah saw him so that theory was moot. What then? How could Savannah not see a flesh and blood human like me?

Mark cleared his throat behind me, his eyes glinting with excitement and a thirst for knowledge, his hands resting on his waist. "This is fascinating. Every session I've spent with her, going through her mental state of mind, her peculiar behavior, and her mysterious childhood is finally making so much sense. It appears Savannah has Selective Perception. Literally."

* *

I spent the remainder of my day learning everything I needed to know about Selective Perception. It was when a person only saw what he or she desired to see and set aside or ignored other perceptions — making themselves blind to it. Basically, Savannah couldn't see me because something in her weird, beautiful brain chose not to. It didn't recognize my stimuli, or my heat signature, thereby making me non-existent.

I barked out a painful laugh. The universe had a twisted sense of humor. I had gotten my wish — I was finally invisible, but to the wrong person.

Everything I thought I knew about the world suddenly became very small, insignificant. She couldn't see me. I was literally nobody to her. All those times fantasizing about meeting her one day, learning from each other, feeling each other's touch... all of it had been a fairytale. I'd known, of course, that nothing would ever happen between us, but now as I felt the insurmountable pain rippling through me, I knew I had still hoped. My mother always said that hope was undiscovered disappointment. She hadn't been right about a lot of things, but she was definitely right about that.

A small part of me was relieved Savannah couldn't see me. I would have preferred that to what I had assumed had happened at the office — that she'd dismissed me because she wanted nothing to do with me. Maybe there was an upside to this biblical catastrophe.

If she couldn't see me, I saw her. Very clearly. I could always admire her. And not even from a distance. I could stand right in front of her, breathe in the intoxicating scent from her neck, kiss her even... how would that feel like? For both of us? She no doubt would not feel anything, but would she sense it at least? Would I feel anything if I touched her? This was all too confusing.

One thing was for certain, though. I was never letting Savannah out of my sight.

* *

It had been two months since I found out that the love of my life literally couldn't see me. I spent at least five days after that realization wallowing in my grief until finally deciding to get off my ass and work. Not too long after that, Mark, to my eternal joy, proposed to Savannah one day at their sessions that she should pretend I existed — talk to me like I was with her as a way of working on her condition. He'd decided not to tell her about her Selective Perception. Said the knowledge will only increase her distorted sense of self and drive her away from anything remotely close to companionship.

Since then, I started following her around like a lovesick puppy while she talked to me, completely unaware that I, in fact, existed and was listening to every word like they were the lyrics to my favorite goddamn song. On weekdays, I walked with her in the morning to Mark's office, to the hospital and to school. No more watching from the window. I chose only weekends to go on full time stalker mode because despite previous comments, I did have a life.

I found out a lot about her during the past months. For one, Mark was the only one who called her Savannah. Everyone else just called her Vanna. Which in my opinion was still unforgivably horrible, but a lot better than the original.

She was studying economics but hated it. She only did it because it was what her father wanted her to do. Which led me to my next discovery:

She was a liar. She lied to practically everyone she needed to, even her therapist, because she wanted to paint a picture of herself that wasn't sad and helpless. Her dad was in a coma, suffering from Schizophrenia, and a surgery gone bad. She'd lied to Mark about her dad being okay. Lied about going to school when she'd just go to the library at the corner of the street and play scrabble with a brainy teenager called Luna. She tried to please everyone around her at her own expense.

It was strangely settling that she wasn't perfect, that I hadn't painted her as some flawless, untouchable princess. She was real and full of flaws, just like any human. I mean, her favorite color was orange, for God's sake. Yikes.

I loved her dog, though. Fade. He was a black Rottweiler who was pretty good at playing fetch and clearly meant the world to her. Her dad had given the dog its strange name as a twisted but genius way of reminding himself that all life would come to an end, beautiful or not.

Also, it turned out I wasn't the only person Vanna couldn't see. Her mum, whom she believed was dead, was actually very much alive. Visited her twice a week, but she had absolutely no idea. The story was, she had stopped seeing her mum when she'd turned ten.

My heart broke at the scene when Vanna burnt her fingers while trying to make omelette, and her mum just stood right next to her, crying. Helpless to soothe the pain her daughter was going through.

Her mum and I rarely spoke to each other, but we were civil enough. I suspected every mother would be less than pleased to see a stranger lurking around their daughter's home every single day. But she never said anything about it to me, and I never bothered to ask for permission. It wasn't my style.

Sometimes, Vanna saw her mum. But she'd think her mind was playing tricks on her.

She'd say, "Wolfgang, I thought I saw my mum today. She was sitting on the porch, knitting. Have I gone completely mad? Like my dad? These things run in the family, you know."

I'd mumble something funny or inspiring, but of course she couldn't hear me. She never would. I didn't know how long I could survive this — to always be right there but out of arm's reach.

It didn't stop me from staying with her. Or wanting her. Or talking to her. Or helping her fix her faulty appliances... sink, car, whatever. I told her about myself and my horrible childhood. Told her about my fears and desires, just like she told me everything about her. It felt nice to have someone to share it with for once. Everytime we were together, all I could think was, how could I possibly be this happy? I've had such a shitty life. Anything remotely close to happiness bordered on weird for me. But I smiled more now. Spoke more.

This entire thing felt surreal, but despite my desires, I never once tried to touch her. It was mostly cowardice because I was afraid of what might actually happen. We knew each other, or at least I knew her. Warts and all. And if not for anything else, I would always be grateful for that.

Today, she was lying on her bed, reading a story out loud to me. Peter Pan and Neverland. Personally, I've never liked that story, but she seemed to like it a lot and assumed I would too. She'd assumed a lot of things about me. My height, my eye color, my skin complexion. She'd only been right about the latter. I've contemplated writing what I looked like down for her, but I liked this not knowing.

"Wolfgang? Are you here?"

"Yes," I said from my position on the brown couch, already used to the one-sided communication.

"What kind of name is Wolfgang anyway?"

I laughed out loud. I didn't like her name so it was only fitting that she wouldn't like mine either. My name was always a thing of mystery to whomever I meet. And that was only if people got around to asking why I was given that name instead of just screaming "Nazi!" and running off. My German heritage wasn't doing me any favors.

Vanna sat up in bed, her flimsy white shirt leaving nothing to the imagination. I didn't look away.

"I looked it up. It means 'Path of the wolf.' Was your dad into wolves or werewolf stories? Are you? Did you have wolves as pets while growing up?"

I did not, but I kept silent, enjoying the sound of her voice as she rambled away, perfectly content to just listen to her.

"Or maybe your name is supposed to mean something symbolic like strength or the power of teamwork cause y'know, wolves hunt in packs. Do you know why I like the story of Peter Pan? Because it's about escape — escaping one's reality. I wonder if your childhood was as dark as mine, Wolfgang. I wonder if you still look at the world and see the beauty in it, after all the pain and suffering it breeds. I wonder if you'd like me despite knowing everything that I am."

I stared at her for the longest time. Her flowing long braids, her petite build, her open nature, her misguided and naïve yet incredibly giving heart. I had never loved her more than I did in this very moment.

"I think your darkness is beautiful, Savannah."

She stiffened. The movement was so sudden I thought I had imagined it. Slowly, she moved to the edge of the bed, hanging her feet at the side. Her movements were too painfully precise. I was beginning to think she was injured.

"Say that again."

My heart stopped. It literally was not pumping. Blood, thoughts, nerves — hell, my very breath ceased as my eyes widened at what she'd just revealed.

"You- you can hear me?" I sat perfectly still, barely allowing myself to believe it. I did not remember reading anything about people recovering from selective perception. Had I?

She gasped, huffing out a disbelieving breath and looked directly at me. If looks could kill, I'd be stone. Solid stone. Tears streamed down her face in torrents as she stared, and stared at me. Really stared at me. Saw me. She didn't move a muscle and neither did I.

Time seemed to stand still as the staring continued and the four corners of the beautifully lit room faded into oblivion.

"You're real," she managed to say. Her voice was small and tight, shaking with each breath. I said nothing. Could say nothing because I simply could not believe this was happening. I had imagined it happening several times in my head and now that it was actually happening live and direct, I couldn't think. What if it was all just in my head? Another one of the universe's cruel jokes?

She rushed to where I was sitting and crouched down before me, her whole body was shaking. "Your eyes are grey, n- not blue."

I was seeing this, seeing her looking at me, noticing me, but I couldn't believe it. You could hold a gun to my head and I would still deny seeing it. It was too good to be true. Therefore it couldn't be true.

She held my hands then and I wondered if my heart could explode. "I was at least right about your hair. Short, dark, and untamed."

Slowly I nodded once, running a shaky hand through her long black braids and across her hazelnut cheeks. She leaned into my touch. "You really can see me?"

She laughed a soft nervous laugh, the sound bringing all my senses back to life.

"Yes, Wolfgang. I really can. I've sensed you for a while. But this... I can't believe I imagined you as a huge caveman and I was actually right."

I had to laugh at that even as unbidden tears trickled down my face. I was feeling every emotion all at once and I felt like my heart would burst with it.

"Savannah..." I gulped then shook my head. "We need to talk about changing your name, my love."

The feminine laughter that followed cast out every shadow lurking in the corners of the room and had me grinning like a Cheshire cat.

A/n: You're probably surprised that I finally ended a story on a happy note. I know, I am too.

Don't you think Wolfgang and Vanna deserve a vote for going through so much and coming out on top?